Another One Bites The Dust
by C.C. Nyde
Summary: It's all a matter of surviving in a post-apocalyptic world, and for Kurt Hummel, it's a challenge like no other. AU WIP Klaine.
1. Dropping The Bomb, Part One

_Disclaimer: I don't claim to own Glee. It belongs to it's... owners? This is just for entertainment purposes. I also don't own the completely wonderful character of Mollie Hummel. She belongs to Keitorin Asthore, who is letting me borrow her for a little while. She's so awesome. _

* * *

><p>"Mr. President?" The voice is far off, distant, and it does nothing to shake him from his haze. He registers the sound of a snap; Admiral Dylans is attempting to seize his attention again. He continues to stare blankly at the screen at the end of the table, where pictures of nuclear missiles and warheads slide across the screen.<p>

"Sir," A sharp voice finally captures his attention, this time coming from Colonel Emerson. The President shakes his head, clearing his cloudy mind, and he finally realizes where he is and why he's here.

"Yes, sir, please continue," He doesn't sound like himself; his tone is too quiet and unfamiliar.

"The Soviet War Machine has mobilized tremendously in the past few months. We've been keeping track of them for a while now, and we've noticed some changes in the past few days." He gestures to the packet of information that everyone at the table is holding, and everyone turns to the page he's on. "As you can see, they're planning something."

_We're on the edge of the point of no return, _The President thinks, wiping his clammy forehead with the back of his sweaty hand.

"I don't want to be the one to start the end of the world. I don't want to start the war." The President speaks, surprising quite a few people at the table.

"The war's already started, sir," A young man, Samuelson, declares powerfully, raising his voice more than necessary. "The whole world's at war, and everyone's waiting on either Russia or us to deal the final punch. If we don't make a move now, we've got a mighty strong storm whipping at our windows."

"They'll back off," Dylans argues, pointedly staring at Samuelson and Emerson. "They've backed off before; they'll do it again."

"Dylans, you and I both know that's shit! We either sit and wait, or we show them what we've got!" The two men begin to argue, but the President isn't listening to either of them.

"Sir, the decision belongs to you now."

_No! I don't want this! I need more time. I need to take another fishing trip where I can just sit and forget about all this. I need…_

_ I need to make a decision. Now. Right now. _

"Yes. We go to Defcon Three."

The decision is made. The President feels numb. The men in the room immediately get set to work, preparing for the war that they'd started. He stays sitting in his chair, wanting more than anything to be home. To kiss his wife on the cheek and clap his son on the back and not be the President anymore, because _holy hell _it's really getting to him.

"Sir, we need to talk about something." Dylans is standing over him, his glasses reflecting the President's hallow face back to him. "Talons."

"It's not time for that yet," His stomach twists in knots, his mouth growing dry as cotton. "Not nearly time for that yet."

"It _is _time for that, sir. You're going to be much more safe at the Airborne Command Center. The first target is going to be the roof of the White House, and we've already relocated your wife and son to the Basement."

"Why can't I join them?" The President challenges, but he knows the reason. The Russians probably know where it is, and he's much more important than his family. Dylans dismisses the question anyway, choosing to continue to elaborate on Talons.

"There will be an Air force officer with a briefcase hand-cuffed to his wrist. Do you know your codes?"

"Yes, I know them." They were the first things he'd learned after taking office. "I won't have to use them, will I?"

"We hope not. But if you do, just remember that, by that time, the America we love is gone." He squeezes the President's shoulder, probably in an attempt to make him feel better.

"The point of no return."

* * *

><p>They're fighting again.<p>

The little boy covers his ears and curls into a fetal position, surrounded by blankets on the bottom bunk of his bunk bed. Their words, distorted and muffled by the closed door and her hands, are scathing and mean. His mother is angry about something; she's always angry about something.

"Tom, I can't deal with this anymore!" His mother screams, and the boy hears a crash, most likely from something she's thrown at his father.

"What can't you deal with, Jamie? You can't deal with being a mother? You can't deal with helping me take care of our son?" The boy takes his pillow and puts it over his head. He doesn't want to hear them fight anymore.

"Tom, it's not my fault!" His mother screams, and instead of a crash, there's a loud _crack _as the mirror in the hallway breaks.

"Yes, it is!" His father says forcefully. "You are the one who goes out drinking half the time, while I'm the one who has to take care of him!" There's a silence, and the little boy can tell that both of his parents are trying to think of what to say next, thinking what would hurt the other worst. His mother speaks first.

"He's a freak!"

The silence is deafening. The boy's eyes grow hot with tears, but he doesn't let them fall. Only babies cry. Suddenly the door to his bedroom flies open. There's a soft light behind the boy's still-closed eyelids. Heavy footsteps creak across the floor, stopping in front of his bed. The boy keeps his eyes shut tight, wishing it all was just a dream.

"C'mon, kiddo," His father speaks, shaking him out of sleep. The boy sits up, looking at his father silently. "We're going to get out of here. Grab a bag with some clothes and things."

His father waits at the door while the boy hurriedly stuffs shorts and shirts into a little blue backpack. He stops to grab his teddy bear, hoping his father doesn't scold him for wanting it even though he's almost eight and a half years old.

"Where the hell do you think you're going to go?" His mother's voice sounds from the hall outside his bedroom.

"Away from here. If you ever get your shit together, maybe we'll come back." The boy finishes packing his things, and his father holds out a hand for him to take. His little sock-covered feet pad across the floor to his father, grabbing onto his hand as tight as he can.

His mother is silent as they walk through the house to the garage. The boy looks around and sees the smashed mirror and the other things his mother had thrown at his father. They get to the garage and his father picks him up, balancing him on his hip as he walks through the cold room to their old, green car. His father sets him in the backseat, laying a blanket over him and buckling his seat belt. He sees his mother standing in the doorway, her dark eyes angry, yet sad at the same time.

"Mama," He says in his sweet, little-boy voice, looking at her with eyes that are way too old for his age. "I forgive you."

They drive away into the night, the streets empty and cold.

"Daddy, where are we going?" He asks his father, who is gripping the steering wheel with white-knuckled fingers.

"Far away from here, kid." His father's voice is tired and weary, and the little boy doesn't blame him; it's been a long night.

"Is mama right about me? Am I really a freak?" His voice is tiny, and his father whips around to look at him faster than should be safe when going at this speed down the street.

"No, Blaine. You are not a freak. No matter what anyone says, you are completely normal." Blaine hugs his bear tighter to his chest, nodding his curly head at his father's words. "Do you understand me?"

"Yes, sir."

* * *

><p>"Kill him, Bobby! Tear him to pieces!"<p>

"Pull his arm off and beat him with the bloody stump!"

"Get him, Bobby!"

The entire gym is hot and humid from the amount of people that are shoved in there to watch the boxing final. It's loud, and the two boys who are fighting barely hear a word the crowd calls out.

Bobby Earles, a local boy, is seventeen years old and built like a horse. He's stocky, his arms the size of a normal boy's thighs, and short. He's best a jabbing and punching, but he isn't very nimble on his feet. The boy he's fighting is a whole different story.

Finn Hudson is six-foot-four and eighteen years old. He's gangly and slightly awkward, and he knows that he's better suited for basketball or football than boxing, but it's easy money for him to send to his mother back in Ohio. The crowd calls him Frankenteen. He likes it; he thinks it suits him.

Bobby lunges at Finn, jabbing him in the ribs with the force of a truck. Finn doubles over for a moment, making Bobby think he's more hurt than he actually is. As soon as Bobby turns around to face the crowd, Finn kicks his legs out from under him. The boy lands with a hard _smack _that reverberates throughout the entire gym. Finn flashes a quick lop-sided grin before kicking him in the ribs. Bobby cowers on the ground for a moment before struggling to his feet and hitting Finn right in the face.

Finn falls to his knees, touching what feels like a broken nose. Bobby lands a kick right in his mid-section, expelling all the air from Finn's lungs. Bobby Earles crouches, picking up Finn's body into an airplane spin. Finn stays still, knowing that Bobby will get tired soon enough and Finn will be able to make his move.

There's a sound like a gunshot that echoes through the entire gym, rendering the crowd silent except for a select few men who holler and shout as Bobby collapses to the man. Finn drops to the ground hard, knowing the sound of a popped bone.

Bobby lies on the ground, clutching at his knee and screaming. The referee is dormant, not knowing what to do as Finn lays silent next to the very injured boy. Finn struggles to his feet, dodging the buckets of popcorn and drinks that are being flung at him from the crowd.

"Disqualify me!" He shouts to the ref over the noise, and the man looks at him with a gob-smacked look on his face.

"What?"

"Get that kid to a doctor!" Finn roars over the crowd, and the exclamation pushes the referee into action. He makes a crisscross hand gesture that means that Finn is disqualified, and calls for the medic to come over and help Bobby. Finn jumps down off the mat and is escorted to his dressing room by a flank of policemen.

In his 'dressing room', which consists of a locker and a bench, he cleans up the blood from his nose and then sets it, crying out even though he's done it a hundred times before. He changes out of his boxing shorts, instead choosing to put on a pair of ratty old sweatpants and a loose t-shirt. He hoists his duffel over his shoulder, wincing as his body protests.

He leaves the high school, pulling on a hat and sunglasses as he lumbers to his old pick-up truck, hoping none of the _fucking hicks _that live in this town recognize his face and attack him like they did back in South Carolina. He'd hoped that the people in Iowa would be nice. He was wrong. He's pretty sure he still has popcorn and Coca Cola stuck in his close-cropped hair.

As soon as he pulls out of the parking lot, he's already checking his cell-phone to see if his mother had called. The last time he talked to her was a week ago, and the conversation consisted of _yes, I'm taking care of myself _and _no, I haven't found a girlfriend yet_. It's getting exhausting.

As he drives down the lonely Iowa road he thinks. He thinks about how he skipped supper, how much his nose hurts, how delicious a grilled cheese sandwich sounds right now, and why the hell are those shooting stars red, and _HOLY SHIT WAS THAT A MUSHROOM CLOUD!_

* * *

><p>He slams on the brakes of the dusty old truck, and he screeches to a stop just as the fire engulfs him.<p>

"Are we there yet?" A high-pitched voice questions and Burt Hummel glances into his rearview mirror to look at his son in the backseat.

"Almost, baby, it's just a little farther." Burt's wife answers kindly, smiling at the small eight-year-old with bright teeth. The little boy crosses his arms, squeezing his Ariel plush doll and sticking out his lower lip.

"I'm bored." He declares, staring out the window moodily. He watches as the endless cornfields whizz by.

"Do you want to listen to some music, baby?" Mollie Hummel questions, and Kurt's eyes snap to hers quickly, his entire head nodding furiously.

"Mommy, play the Beatsles!" He commands.

"It's the _Beatles_, honey." Mollie corrects kindly, and he waves his hand in a fashion that Burt thinks seems way too old for an eight-year-old. Mollie cracks a smile and pops the old, worn, CD in the player. Burt smiles as his beautiful wife and little boy both automatically start singing along with identical voices. Granted, Mollie's is a little more developed, but Kurt's is just as sweet.

They continue down Highway 27, driving to Burt's family's house for the weekend. It's nearly nine o' clock, and Burt hopes they get there soon. Kurt's pretty cranky when he's tired.

A small _beep _sounds from the dashboard, and Burt notices that the gas tank is nearly empty.

"Shoot," He says to himself, trying to think if he'd seen a sign for a gas station anywhere near by. Just as the thought crosses his mind, they pass a sign that declares

"_Gas! Food! Drinks! One quarter mile, Shuester's Station_"

He silently thanks God. He can't imagine running out of gas in the middle of nowhere like this.

"We're gonna stop for gas in a little bit, Kurt. Do you need to go to the bathroom?" Burt looks at his son in the rearview mirror, shaking his head adamantly. "Well, you're gonna try anyway. I don't know when we'll see another station." He pulls the old station wagon into the drive, stopping at the gas pump.

"I'll fill up, you go take Kurt inside." Molly tells Burt, unbuckling Kurt from the backseat. He clutches the Ariel doll to his chest, taking his daddy's big hand and following him into the large gas station. There's a man behind the counter with gelled hair and a hideous vest. Burt smiles at him politely, leading his son to the back.

When they exit the bathroom, Mollie is still outside pumping gas. Burt goes to the coolers and grabs two bottles of water and a carton of juice for Kurt. He goes to the counter, pulling out his wallet.

"Can I get you anything else?" The man asks, and Burt shakes his head.

"Are you the owner?" Burt asks, curious. The man nods, smiling and holding his hand out for Burt to shake.

"Will Shuester." He introduces.

"I'm Burt, this is my son Kurt, and that's my wife Mollie." He points out the window to his wife, who is sitting in the front seat, fiddling with the radio. She sees him and waves, smiling. The bell above the door dings, and a tired looking teenage boy stumbles inside. He, too, goes to the bathroom in the back.

"Daddy, I'm tired," Kurt whines, staring up at his father with those big, bright, eyes.

"I know, Scooter. We'll be there soon." Burt assures his son.

"Where are ya'll headed?" Will asks.

"We're headed to my sister's house in Mount Pleasant." Wills nods.

"I see. Well, drive safe." William smiles again, and Burt begins walking to the door, Kurt trailing behind. The boy from earlier exits the bathroom, grabbing a Gatorade and making his way to the counter.

Burt and Kurt get half-way to the exit when the first loud _boom _is heard. The entire ground shakes, a crack forming out on the concrete beside the gas pumps.

"_Mollie_!" Burt yells, his terrified wife jumping out of the car and running across the drive as fast as she can. There's another _boom _and Burt sees what looks like missiles streak across the sky. There's a loud _crack _as the entire road separates. The corn stalks on the other side of the road are on fire, and it's spreading quickly to the exposed gas barrels.

"Mommy, run!" Kurt screams, and everything slows. The entire world is in slow motion. Mollie takes a look behind her shoulder, seeing the flames ignite the gas. She turns and locks eyes with Burt.

He'll never forget that look. The fear in her eyes; those eyes that have always been so expressive. Burt hears the teenage boy yelling, tugging on his arm. William has Kurt thrown over his shoulder and is opening a door in the floor, coaxing the screaming boy down the stairs. The teenager yells at Burt follow, but he's already running out the door to help his wife. He doesn't notice the teenager and Will running into the basement, closing the door and locking themselves and Burt's son inside.

He reaches Mollie and they grab each other's arms, stumbling back towards the gas station.

They don't make it. The gas barrels explode, and Kurt Hummel is officially an orphan.

* * *

><p><em>AN: So. This is the beginning of an AU story that I've been working on for a LONG-ASS time. It's pretty dark, as you can tell, but I'm really excited for this one. Like, legit. I hope you enjoyed this little 'prologue' and I'm looking forward to writing more for you guys. :D _

_Seriously, though. I plan on really cranking this one out and being good about updating and stuff. I'm pretty excited (as I've mentioned), so I hope you guys are too! Yaaaaay!_

_lessthanthree,  
>Max<em>

_ccnyde (.) tumblr (.) com _


	2. Dropping the Bomb, Part Two

_Disclaimer: I do not own Glee, nor the book "Swan Song" by Robert McCammon that this story is pretty much modeled after._

_a/n: hey. it's been almost a year. sorry!_

* * *

><p>"Oh, my God, Mercedes, slow the fuck down!" Quinn Fabray shouts after her roommate, the darker skinned-girl ignoring her pleas. She continues weaving in and out of the crowd, dodging past fellow rushing New Yorkers.<p>

"We're gonna miss the subway, Q!" Mercedes exclaims, reaching back to grab her best friend's hand, pulling her faster down the sidewalk. The eighteen-year-old African American woman continues her fast walk down the street, only pausing when a particularly rude New Yorker steps in her path. Quinn, a seventeen-and-a-half-year-old blonde girl, rolls her eyes and speeds up her steps. They reach the 42nd street subway entrance, lumbering down the steps and through the gates just in time to reach the subway doors as they closed.

"Fuck!" Mercedes yells, earning a few dirty looks from businessmen and moms all around. Quinn sighs, attempting to catch her breath after running almost ten blocks in the sweltering July heat.

"It's alright, we'll just wait for the next one." Quinn reassures Mercedes, and the dark girl smiles.

"Fine. I blame you though." She plops down onto a bench while Quinn goes and checks when the next train comes by to take them where they need to go.

"It comes in about ten minutes." Quinn tells her friend and Mercedes sighs, pulling a book out of her bag and beginning to read. Quinn smiles at her silence and relaxes into the bench, watching as fellow New Yorkers bustle past. Everyone is going somewhere with a purpose. She sees a boy with brown dreadlocks and no shoes playing a guitar in the corner, low voice singing sultrily.

"I'll be right back," She says slowly to Mercedes, who waves her off. She stands from the bench and walks to the boy, not quite a man yet. The blonde girl throws a few dollars into the open guitar case in front the musician. He looks up at her and smiles.

"I'm Joe." He says.

"Quinn." She greets. She's about to ask him to play her a song when the screaming starts.

There's a loud crashing noise, like a train squealing on the tracks. Her head whips around to see the first flash of flames that engulf the underground station. There's a smell like something burning, and screams echo throughout the building. She begins running for the bench Mercedes had been sitting at, forgetting about Joe as he sprints toward the exit, guitar and case left behind. She almost reaches Mercedes.

The last thing she remembers is a flaming pain in her side, the smell of burning flesh, and the sound of her own voice echoing in a shout.

* * *

><p>Fourteen-year-old Santana Lopez rolls her eyes at her father, putting her red head phones back into her ears and directing her gaze back out the window. Her mother and father continue arguing while they drive through the middle-of-fucking-nowhere Wyoming. All Santana's dad mentioned to her before pushing her into the car with nothing but one single duffle bag filled with sweatpants and shirts was that they were going somewhere called 'Earth House' and they could be safe now. He could have at least let her pack cute clothes.<p>

She doesn't know what the hell this 'Earth House' thing is, but it sounds really stupid to her. She doesn't want to uproot her entire life just because her dad is a paranoid freak.

"Richard, you could at least tell me _why _this couldn't have waited until the weekend. I have a house showing tomorrow morning that I cannot afford to miss!" Santana's mother's voice floats above her music, which is quite impressive, since Santana is in her weepy teenager mode, which means her music is at a decibel loud enough to shatter most people's eardrums.

"It isn't safe, Lisa, you know that." Santana's dad reasons, and Santana turns down her music to listen in on the rest of her parents' conversation.

"You could at least tell me how much time we have." Lisa says, and Richard glances back at Santana, so she quickly looks out the window and pretends to be ignoring them.

"The bombs were sent out at about nine o' clock." Lisa sucks a breath into her lungs quickly, shuddering as she exhales.

"Which gives us about…" She trails off, looking at the sky out the window.

"We don't have much time to get there." Richard finishes, turning off the main highway and onto a dirt track that seems to lead to a mountain. Santana glances at her mother, who is clutching her thighs with her hands so hard her knuckles are turning white.

Santana decides to speak up for the first time.

"Then you should fucking drive faster."

* * *

><p>Earth House isn't ready yet. There's still chicken wire hanging out from a hole in a wall, there are cracks in the concrete, and the patches that have been used to cover them are flimsy. Workers buzz about, mending holes and filling cracks with whatever they can find.<p>

Sue Sylvester is _disgusted_.

"You think building a nuclear war shelter on short notice is hard? Try working at a public school! That's hard!" She shouts through her megaphone, earning dirty looks from not only workers and guards, but the mouth-breathers that paid the big bucks to spend a year in this stupid place while the entire world goes to war. Truthfully, it's exactly the type of thing that Sue wishes she could see in person, but that just isn't going to work out. If she's going to be the first person to command a cheerleading squad of nuclear war survivors, she needs to be in tip-top shape. If that means she has to sit underground with a bunch of arrogant rich people for a year, so be it.

"Uhm, ma'am?" A tentative voice stutters from behind her.

"What?" She barks, turning and glaring down at the small blonde girl that had tapped her grubby hands on Sue's shoulder and distracted her from yelling at the incompetent workers.

"I lost my mommy." The small teenager says in a barely audible voice, lower lip trembling and eyes wide.

"That's your own problem." Sue tells the girl, and the girl's blue eyes begin to fill with tears. "Enough with the waterworks." Sue commands, making the girl look even more like a sad puppy. Sue groans.

"Fine." She growls, taking the teenager's hand roughly, pulling her down the corridor at a fast pace.

"What's your name?" The girl asks excitedly, completely forgetting about her previous fear.

"Commander Sylvester. But you can call me Coach." The girl nods, still following Sue down the hall.

"I'm Brittany Susan Pierce. I'm thirteen years old, but my mommy sometimes says I look younger." Sue glances at the girl and sees what her mother means. Her face is round and her eyes are bright. She smiles brightly with white teeth, lighting up her features. Her light blonde hair is pulling back into a ponytail and Sue can't even begin to describe what she's wearing.

"Yes, well, I'm twenty-seven and people say I look younger too. I guess we're just way younger than we look." Sue stops in front of a large door with a sign next to it that says _OFFICE_ in official letters, swiping her identification card over the lock and pulling Brittany through the door. There's a man and a woman on the other side, both tall and blonde. The woman is crying while the man comforts her.

"Mommy!" Brittany calls, rushing forwards as the woman turns to her daughter's voice. Sue's heart clenches for a minute, but she shrugs it off as heartburn. The father is suddenly right next to Sue, and she takes a step back as he beams at her with a familiar smile.

"Thank you so much for bringing Brittany to us." He says, holding his hand out for her to shake. She ignores it, scowling and turning around.

"Bye, Coach!" Brittany calls out as she leaves, and she almost turns around and smiles before thinking better of it. There's no reason to get attached to a small girl who probably won't even survive the first bombing.

* * *

><p>"Dude, <em>what <em>are you doing?" Jeff asks, laughter in his voice.

"Changing the CD; what does it look like I'm doing?" Nick replies, taking the mix CD his best friend, Jeff, had made him and replacing it with an old JET CD that has probably seen better days.

"It looks like you're taking your eyes off the road to find some lame old CD that I don't plan on listening to." Jeff shoots back, slapping Nick's hand away as he fiddles with the radio dial.

"I'm about to fall asleep, and JET will make me feel better." Nick says tiredly, hitting his turn signal and turning onto the main street of a small town in Illinois.

"I can drive." Jeff points out, sitting up in his seat straighter and looking to his best friend worriedly.

"I'm good. We're almost home anyway." Nick assures, flicking his eyes to Jeff's before looking back to the street. Nick sees the flash of headlights in the far distance, squinting at the light.

"Wow. Imagine seeing someone else out here at this time of morning." Jeff comments as _Last Chance _transitions into _Are You Gonna Be My Girl_.

"Yeah." Nick says back, distracted. The car is driving sporadically, and coming fast. The headlights loom closer and closer, no longer driving on the right side of the road, but right down the middle. Nick begins to slow.

"What is that guy doing?" Jeff questions, blue eyes turning to Nick in worry.

"I'm not sure." Nick has almost slowed to a stop at this point, staying off to the side of the street, not wanting to run into this car.

There's a sudden gust of wind that rolls through the open windows of the old car, hot and stifling. Jeff coughs as his eyes start to water from the dry heat.

"It smells like something's burning." Jeff comments, voice rising in volume.

That's when Nick sees the mushroom cloud in the distance, a stark red against the black sky. It looms over a hill from where the speeding car had just come.

"Holy shit!" Jeff screams as Nick squeals the car to a stop. "Do you see that?" He shouts, pointing. Nick is already turning the car around to drive in the opposite direction when a sudden force from behind runs into them. There's a sound like metal clashing as the burning smell gets heavier and the air gets hotter and drier. Jeff's head whips to see the car from before pushing them forward. Both cars flip and then crash into separate buildings.

Nick wakes some time later, mouth dry. His leg is pinned under part of the shop wall and he can't feel it.

"Jeff!" He shouts, getting a small reply.

"I'm alive." His friend wheezes, and he can see through the small amount of bright red light coming through the hole from their car that Jeff is stumbling towards him. The blonde boy falls to his knees next to Nick, seeing his pinned thigh.

"Shit." Jeff swears under his breath, voice low and raspy.

"I'm alive." Nick assures him, reaching out for Jeff's hand. He pats his friend's limp arm and then hits him softly.

"Help me get this thing off me." He commands and Jeff's eyes flick to his as he nods almost imperceptivity. The blonde moves slowly down by Nick's legs, eyeing the structure of top of them warily. He puts his hands under it and tries to lift it up, getting it almost an inch before a section of it cracks and presses down harder onto the brunette. Nick screams, high pitched and pain-filled, and Jeff almost cries out as he hears his best friend's anguish.

"It's okay, it's gonna be okay." Jeff whispers, tears clogging his throat as Nick throws his head back and bites his lip. He pulls up again, arms shaking with exertion, and almost lifts the bit of siding off of Nick. "Almost done," he says quietly, lifting. He manages to completely slide it off of his friend. Nick is almost completely still, looking incredibly pale.

"Jeff," He whimpers, a few tears sliding down his face.  
>"You're good, you're okay." Jeff says, moving back upwards to his friend, leaning over and pulling his head onto his own lap. His leg doesn't seem to be bleeding, but Jeff doesn't want to make him move it around since it's probably broken.<p>

"Blaine!" A voice suddenly booms from Jeff and Nick's right side. Both heads weakly turn to look to where it is and both boys see a man stumbling through rubble, lifting pieces of broken wall and furniture as he walks.

"Hello?" Jeff calls out to him, and the tall man looks to them.

"Have you seen my son?" He asks worriedly, overturning rubble and working his way towards the two men.

"No, I'll help you look." Jeff promises, moving Nick off of his lap and standing. He limps over to the man. "His name is Blaine, right?" Jeff asks and the man nods hurriedly. Nick almost smiles at his friend, someone who always will help no matter how hurt he is.

"Blaine!" The man and Jeff both begin to cry and Nick sees a bit of plaster roofing move to his left.

"Jeff, I think he's over here!" Nick yells as the plaster moves slightly again. The man runs over as fast as he can, Jeff limping quickly behind, and lifts the plaster to find a little boy.

"Daddy?" The boy asks quietly, reaching his arms out for the man, who scoops him up and hugs him to his chest. Jeff stumbles his way back to Nick, plopping down and grabbing his friend's hand.

"Thank you so much, boys," The man says, coming over to stand near them, his child sobbing into his chest. "My name is Tom, this is my son, Blaine."

"I'm Jeff and this is Nick." The blonde boy gestures to his pale friend who manages to wave a hand in a half-hearted greeting.

"Did you see what that explosion was?" Tom asks, and both boys shake their heads. "We were driving and we saw it. I tried to outdrive it, but I think it caught up and blew my car into yours. I'm so sorry."

"It's not your fault." Jeff attempts to assure him, but the man has already plopped down on the floor and moved closer to the two teenagers.

There's a muffled voice from the man's chest as Blaine tries to speak.

"What was that, scooter?" Tom asks, holding his son out at arm's length as the kid takes a deep breath and looks at his father with caramel eyes.

"Missiles, daddy." Blaine says, almost nonchalantly, to his father, eyes wide.

"What?" Nick wheezes, turning his head to look at the kid.

"I saw missiles."

* * *

><p>"Mommy?" A small, broken voice cries, and Noah 'Puck' Puckerman blearily opens his eyes.<p>

"Calm down, buddy." An older voice chides with the child while Puck rubs the back of his head. He feels a warm, sticky wetness on his hand and has an internal freak-out for a moment when he realizes he can't see anything.

"Oh, my God! Am I blind?" He shouts to no one in particular, panicking.

"It's just the dark." The older voice soothes as Puck feels around him to find out where he is. He doesn't remember much, just a lot of shouting and screaming and heat.

"Where am I?" Puck yells forcefully, crawling towards the man's voice. As he gets closer, he can also hear sniffling and crying from the small voice from before.

"Underground." The older man answers as Puck draws closer. "It's okay, kid," The man soothes, quieter this time. "We're okay."

"How the fuck did we get here?" Puck questions, finally feeling close enough to the man that he doesn't need to yell anymore. His eyes have adjusted a little and he can almost make out the figure of a man and a child huddled deep into the dirt.

"Don't you remember?" The man asks again, and Puck recognizes his voice from the gas station. So that's where he is. He begins to remember things faster now, the heat of an explosion, a father and son, a shop worker in a horrible vest. He remembers grabbing the kid and running down stairs into a basement while fire engulfs the father and mother.

"I do." Puck says quietly now, moving towards where he thinks the child is. He feels around and comes in contact with a clammy knee, but it disappears quickly. "It's okay," He says, reaching out for the kid, "I won't hurt you." Suddenly, he has a lapful of small child, and he hugs the warm body close to him.

"What's your name?" Puck questions.

"Kurt," The small boy answers, hugging his knees to his chest and burrowing back further into Puck's warmth. "Kurt Hummel."

"I'm Noah Puckerman," Puck tells the child softly, "And I promise you, everything is going to be alright."

* * *

><p><em>an: hey. i'm so freaking sorry it practically took me a year to write this, but omfg i just re-found the original document and it's like BAM ideas and plots and characters and OMFG I HAVE TO WRITE IT RIGHT NOW!  
><em>_so here it is. the next chapter should include the first glimpse of answers and storyline, along with some new and old characters! things will get a little easier to understand and follow, I PROMISE! _

_don't hate me? i love you! _

_lessthanthree, max. _


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